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Tag: Manchester bomb

Look at the faces of the dead or missing children from the Manchester suicide bombing. Think about how their friends and families are feeling right now; imagine the terror and pain those around them must have experienced as they fled or lay wounded amid the glass, shrapnel, blood and faeces; mourn the young lives cut so callously short.

Do all these things now, while you can, while the emotion is still raw, because in a few days those innocents will be forgotten (except by the loved ones whose happiness will, of course, remain permanently blighted), the politicians will have said their usual stuff and the media circus will have moved on.

Make no mistake this is what the head-in-the-sand liberal establishment wants you to do.

It may not be official policy – no one would be crass enough to write it down or codify it. But across the world from San Bernardino to Mumbai, from Stockholm to Berlin, from Paris to Manchester, the modus operandi is the same: a swift burst of shock and outrage, very quickly dampened down by the regulation-issue call to “get on with life and thank the nurses”, a candle-lit vigil and an almost indecently hasty memorial service, followed by virtual oblivion.

I talked about this recently to Douglas Murray (guest of my next podcast) whose new bestseller The Strange Death of Europe asks, among other questions, how it is that we have come to value Western culture so lightly that we are now apparently prepared to allow it to be swamped and obliterated by the combined forces of mass immigration and militant Islam.

Murray’s view is that it’s because we don’t want to face up to the horror that, even now, is engulfing us.

If we can scrub away those pesky bloodstains ASAP and get the memorial services over with (in the case of the victims of Westminster terrorist Khaled Massood before their bodies were buried) then maybe all the horrid stuff we don’t want to deal with will somehow disappear.

So on we shall continue in our fool’s paradise like the Eloi – the fragile, graceful, proto-hippy folk in HG Wells’s The Time Machine. They live a life of (delusional) ease, peace and beauty. But the terrible price they pay for this is to be devoured, at intervals, by the savage and barbaric Morlocks.

This is how it will end: not with a whimper but an endless succession of bangs.